Week 7 Journal

Journey

Six days. It had only been six days since Cornelia and Bella had left home, but it was as if decades had passed by. Their world had been tipped upside-down in front of their eyes; it was unrecognizable. Cornelia wanted to go back to her mother in their bakery, with nothing to worry about except for her mother getting angry with her. She wanted to wake up in her bed again, with the birds chirping as the scent of fresh bread from the oven filled the space around her. Yes, maybe she would wake up and all of it would be a dream.

She glanced at Bella, but Bella was busy watching the scenery go by from the side of the boat. They were headed downstream, where they had been told to get off at the next village. After that, they didn’t know where they were headed. Cornelia didn’t want to know. She didn’t even want to be there in the first place. She didn’t belong there. It wasn’t the journey for her.

She imagined her dad’s ghost, urging her to leave. Telling her that she was the only one who could save them. She shuddered at the image.

Bella seemed to want nothing to do with her, but Cornelia couldn’t stand the silence between them any longer. They had to do something to pass the time. It was either that or waiting for the world’s inevitable end. “So,” Cornelia cleared her throat. “What’s your favorite song?”

Bella didn’t say anything at first, she was still focused on the pine trees that lined the edge of the river, and the sky above them. It was still cloudy from the rain early that morning; a rain that had washed away any last trace of Cornelia’s past.

Finally, she turned to Cornelia, but still refused to meet her eyes. “Why are you asking?”

“Because I want to know about you.”

“Why would you want to know about me?”

“What else would we do?” Cornelia gestured around them. They were on a boat, floating down a river, waiting for the supposed end of the world. “And, besides, you liked music. You knew more about it than I did.”

Bella’s cheeks turned red. Cornelia had caught Bella messing with her guitar, even though Bella wasn’t supposed to be touching their things. “I guess I know a bit,” she paused. “Um.”

“What?”

Cornelia followed Bella’s gaze to what looked to be the end of the river, if the world were flat.

Blue moon 

 

*Excerpt from my story submission

It was nearly morning. Birds were chirping, and the sun peeked out over the horizon, lighting up the tops of the palm trees. He covered his ears, unable to listen to them. And, when he finally uncovered them, he could no longer hear a single noise. There was no sound of the wind, no faint sound of ocean waves crashing against the beach. The birds were flying away, in circles. But no, they weren’t birds, they were books. Books were flying in the sky. Pablo rubbed his eyes, but the books still flew in circles.

He started running. He didn’t know where he was going, but he had to leave. He was no better than the man at the train station. He’d probably end up like his cousin, Henri.

Pablo’s foot struck a rock, and he fell face-first on the hard pavement. His hands were scraped, and small drops of blood ran down them. He rubbed them on his white shirt.

Pulling himself up, he looked at the ground. It wasn’t a rock, it was a clock. A melting clock. The Persistence of Memory. He backed away from the clock face with hands that were frozen in time. He had to get away.

He found himself back at the train station, not remembering how he got there. There’s no way he could have run that fast, could he? No longer able to feel his body, he had no way to tell if he’d run that far. His mind had become detached from it, as if it were a separate entity.

He was about to cross over the other side of the train tracks when a hand caught his attention. It was drawing a curtain shut that reached farther than he could see, up into the sky. He turned to see the rest of the body, but there was nothing else, only a leg and a hand attached to each other.

Another hand reached out to touch his chest, trying to keep him away from the curtain, but he pushed it out of the way. “Leave me alone!” He screamed, pushing his way through the curtain just as it closed.

There, he stood on the train station platform again. There was no escape.

He held his hand out in front of him, but it no longer looked like skin. It was created from the brush strokes, just like the ones from his own paintings.

He squinted up at the sky, only to discover, to his dismay, that it was also filled with paint strokes. It was just a painting.